


sweet nothings

by itsacoup



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Magic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-15 23:10:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11241231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsacoup/pseuds/itsacoup
Summary: There’s something about the Igloo. It’s haunted.Five intangible moments and one tangible love.





	sweet nothings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sparcck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcck/gifts).



one (the intangible mind)

_What is real?_

_Hockey, ice, the sound of skates, the smell of sweat, the feel of cold, hockey hockey hockey_

_Hockey is real_

_Am I real?_

_What am I?_

_I couldn’t stay so what did I do, what should I have done, I needed to be somewhere else, I needed to not be there so now I am here, where is here?_

_I’m sorry mama I’m sorry papa, I just can’t do this, I had to go, I had to get to where I needed to be but I can’t go so I will stay-and-go_

He is a whisper on the breeze. A breath of chill winter air over the summer seas. A dream incarnate, a dream intangible. Rebellion in the form of a wordless shout and little more, strong enough to grasp to life so far away from life. He is nothing but a single purpose: _go_.

 

_“And now, the training camp report from Metallurg. A disturbing development has come to light this week; third-year veteran Evgeni Malkin has disappeared from training in Finland. There are concerns of foul play by the NHL and particularly the Pittsburgh Penguins, who drafted him second overall two years ago and have expressed continuing interest in removing him from the Superleague. This summer, Malkin signed another contract to Metallurg, showing clear intent to remain in Russia. We have spoken with his parents, who give the following message.”_

_The image shows parents: brave faces masking worry. “Our son is well,” Vladimir says. (He is not well.) “He has been devoted to the team, to Russia.” (They bound him with deepest magic, contracts signed in blood upon the soul-- yet still, they do not own him. His heart yearns.) “Metallurg will ensure that any mystery is resolved quickly.” (Metallurg has no idea what is happening.) “We are confident that all will be clear very soon.” (We are worried. We do not know. We miss him, our son, and we worry.)_

 

 

 

two (the intangible soul-bond)

There’s something about the Igloo.

At first, Sid thinks it’s his dreams that lurk in the hallways, dancing in the corners of his eyes. Eighteen years of training, of wishing, of waiting; there’s a lot of dreams coming to roost. The victory of being drafted, of making the show-- that’s just the beginning. Now it’s real, and Sid has a hell of a lot to live up to. _Go go go, hurry,_ the Igloo seems to breathe at him. _Hurry up and make your dreams be true_.

But then there’s more. Shadows in the corner of his eyes grow to chill winds that dance across his skin, lights that flicker above him, one at a time, following his path through the labyrinthine halls.

There’s something about the Igloo. It’s haunted.

Sid tells Mario. Mario gives him a look that says, _is the stress getting to this kid?_ “The Igloo isn’t haunted,” Mario says patiently. “We have the best curse-breakers in the league checking it regularly. There’s nobody here but us, Sid.”

That’s the problem. There’s an empty spot next to Sid that never feels full no matter who plays on his wing. The emptiness follows him everywhere.

There’s something about the Igloo. It leaves a jagged hole in Sid’s heart.

 

 

 

three (the intangible meeting)

The ice is always there. Waiting. Ready.

Today, it’s waiting for Sid after the team leaves, after the zamboni settles down to sleep, pinging and creaking, after the lights are turned low. There is Sid, a shadowed ghost in the locker room, still dressed in full gear, head bowed and face hidden by the dark.

He turns on just enough lights to get to the ice without tripping. It’s hardly worth the effort; they flicker so violently it’s almost worse than no lights at all. Still he turns them on. Maybe it’s the Igloo talking to him. Maybe it’s the spirit of hockey. Maybe it’s nothing. But-- it’s a nothing that’s better than darkness.

Here is his stick, and there is a bucket of pucks. With the ice, it’s the trifecta that Sid chases ceaselessly, the three-pointed balance that can tip him over or cut him open without a second thought.

It doesn’t matter; he keeps chasing it, he’ll always chase it, because life isn’t life without that whisper of pleasuredanger.

(The ice is as smooth as dreams beneath his skates, something too good for this world. And for him, that’s true; it isn’t _just_ of this world. The ice stretches into his soul, sending many-tendriled limbs sinking into everything soft within him and grasping until it freezes. Sidney and the ice: the ice and Sidney. Are they different? Are they the same? Yes. Yes.)

There’s a rhythm to the susurrations of blades catching on ice, the snaps of cold pucks on sticks, the sighs of hot breath into freezing air. It’s the song of Sidney’s life, and here he can listen to it uninterrupted. But-- the song skips a beat as a puck passes over the center of the ice, and Sidney grinds to a halt, puzzled. He inspects the ice, but it’s Zamboni-smooth, so he shrugs. He shoots again over the heart of the Penguin. The puck skips. And the next puck skips. And the next and the next and the next, until Sidney’s sent the whole bucket of pucks over the Penguin with a shuddering jump over emptiness.

(The emptiness follows him everywhere.)

Sidney feels deep within his soul the crack of a glacier, the shift of an iceberg splitting off. It’s the only language that ice knows, shouting to him in the only urgency it has: _a piece is lost! It floats adrift! Soon it will be no more!_

Nobody’s watching-- for once-- so he goes to the ice, falls to his knees with a thud. He tips his head back, sweat dripping down the sides of his face, staring into the deep dark above until bursts of false color fill his sight. He leans heavily onto hands, collapsing onto his side. He rolls until he is spread-eagle on his back and closes his eyes. The ice sinks into his bones with a crackle as he listens to the echos of silence around him.

 

_hello_

The echo speaks back.

 

 _Hello?_ Sidney says, not with words but with spirit.

 

 _hello hello Hello HELLO_ **_HELLO H E L L O_ **

 

 _Whowhatwhere are you?_ Sidney asks. _Whyhow are you here?_

 

_sid_

 

“That’s me,” he says aloud, forcing the fear-freeze to fall from his throat. “That’s me, I’m Sid, who are you?”

 

_Sid_

 

The ice boils with Sidney’s frustration. He opens his eyes to a fog, thick as pea soup and smelling of the ocean.

Yes, he opens his eyes to a fog-- and a face in the fog looking down at him. Eyes of swirling darkness, the gashing vertical shadow of a nose and horizontal of a mouth. Slowly, the face coalesces, the lights far above flickering, flickering through it, until the eyes take shape with a droop, the nose curves proudly, the lips pout. The gaze is startling, and it pierces into Sidney until it finds the jagged hole in his heart.

Evgeni Malkin. A face seen only on fuzzy tapes of hockey plays and news interviews. A face that Sidney has waited for. The missing hockey star, the not-so-little Penguin that was lost.

Evgeni Malkin lives in the fog in the Igloo and haunts Sidney.

“Sid,” Evgeni whispers. It’s a real voice this time, exhaled next to Sidney’s ear, with a caress dragging across Sidney’s cheek that’s strong enough to be a hand instead of a breath. “Sid,” he says again, imploring, _pleading,_  and the mist-face explodes, puffing outwards on the harshly stopped _d_ of Sidney’s name.

 

The mist crystallizes in Sidney’s eyelashes. He lies on the ice, motionless, nearly breathless, until it melts into his eyes and drips down his cheeks.

 

For a brilliant second, the iceberg adrift was returned to him: the emptiness was filled.

 

 

 

four (the intangible friendship)

The lights don’t flicker anymore. Mario gives Sidney a look: _See? It’s all fine._ (It _is_ all fine. Geno doesn’t have to shriek for Sidney’s attentions any longer. He doesn’t need to haunt, because Sidney orients himself to the shadow in the corner of every room.)

Maybe Sidney should tell someone. Maybe he should try and fix it. But what can anyone do to help a wanderer? There’s only the big magicks, the ones that need other approvals-- Mario, David, the team-- to perform, and Sidney doesn’t want to know if Evgeni is too much of a risk for that.

Sidney stays late most nights now. He snickers to his legs when nothing has been said, he finds missing objects that other people lose, he doesn’t relax until he finds the shadow in the corner of the room. But most of all, he stays late.

The puck skitters across the ice away from Sidney and he chases it, laughing. He bickers with Geno but not in words, but in feelings, elbow-to-the-side, slap-on-the-back, celly-hug. He tells Geno what he can’t tell anyone else, and Geno listens.

 

Sidney is careful, careful to be sure it’s just him and his nothingness left behind when all the lights go out and the ice welcomes him back again. This time, he’s not careful enough.

“Not fair!” Sidney crows with a laugh, chasing after a puck that abruptly reversed direction when it was about to hit his stick. “That’s cheating!”

A smug feeling: _not-cheating always-winning better-keep-up_.

“Yeah, whatever,” Sidney says, turning to chase after a new puck that slides teasingly away from his skates. “Let’s see what happens when we finally get you here, eh?” He tries to feint for the puck but Geno is too quick, and it’s halfway to the blue line before Sidney can cradle it against his blade. “That’ll be a fair fight then!”

 _Never-fair, sid-best, can’t-win-against-you-because-you-don’t-stop-until-you-win_.

“Sid?” Mario calls.

Sidney stops. His heart plunges down, past his stomach, past his feet, into the chill ice below. He turns, a single motion surrounded by a forest of suddenly still pucks all outside the range of his stick, to see Mario standing, brow creased, at the bench door. “Yeah?” Sidney calls. His voice warbles, unsure, afraid, and suddenly his heart is achingly empty again.

“Let’s-- let’s go to the hospital, Sid,” Mario says, heavy. Each word a death knell, and behind it rings _you’re crazy, Sid_.

“No, I’m fine!” Sidney bleats. “You don’t understand, it’s not-- I’m not-- there’s-- Evgeni--”

“Sidney,” Mario soothes. “Come on, we can get you help.”

_DON’T-NEED-HELP! PERFECT! BEST! SIDNEY!!!_

Mario ducks, just in time. He turns slow, so s l o w. Sidney’s heart slams into his chest where it belongs and starts beating, frantic _pattapattapattapatta_. Behind Mario, embedded halfway into the wall directly behind his head, is a puck.

 _bestbestbest_ _never-take-away he’s-fine he’s-mine_

 

 

 

five (the intangible rescue)

_What is real?_

_Hockey, ice, the sound of skates, the smell of sweat, the feel of cold, hockey hockey hockey_

_Hockey is real_

_Am I real?_

 

It takes the whole team. They call it a closed practice to the media, but it’s more than that; not even all of the trainers are invited, most of the staff is missing. Today, the rink is a sacred space, and its priests wear black and gold.

Sidney is first in the locker room, and he prepares carefully, ritualistically. Today, everything has power, and he won’t leave a damn thing to chance. He eats a PB&J even though he just had breakfast, because it’s an hour before puck drop. He dresses slowly, mindfully, relishing the feeling of armor, of power, that comes along with his gear. He tapes his stick to perfection, ripping it off three times before the layers sit exactly how he wants.

The locker room is full by the time Sidney pulls on his sweater, tugs it until the Penguin feels like a glowing brand against his chest. It’s so quiet he can hear the _shhh_ of the fabric against his chest protector. The air feels crystalline between them all, a delicate glass ready to be shattered at the slightest breath. The power starts building here: any wrong move and it’s broken for good.

The team trickles out to the ice starting with Flower, and Sidney waits in his stall until the last back disappears through the doors. He stands ponderously, thumps his stick twice against the ground like he always does before a game, and follows. Out on the ice, they’ve already split in two, arranging themselves on the ice facing each other with each bench holding a full second shift of players.

Every single body on the ice is wearing black jerseys and pants and socks. They don’t play against each other today-- they play against the universe.

Sidney’s skin buzzes, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, as Mario approaches. He’s their referee in a golden 66 jersey for this game, eyes dark and sharp as they array themselves across the ice. Jordy squares off against Sidney, his face as solemn as Mario’s, and Sidney swallows against the swoop of nerves. He’s not a rookie anymore, but there’s something magical about hockey that never leaves you, and they’re about to use that magic like few have successfully used it before.

Sidney and Jordy’s breaths hang mistily in the air and intermingle. A hush falls over the ice as everyone lines up, the benches quiet, skates gone silent against the ice. It’s a pure, perfectly still moment of anticipation, and it raises every hair on Sidney’s body as he tenses, staring at Mario’s hand, waiting waiting waiting _waiting_ ** _waiting_ ** \--

The puck drops. Sidney snaps his stick down and yanks the puck from Jordy, sending it off to the left. He exhales harshly, and the warm air dances across his lower lip before a cool inhale drives the heat away. He shouts, “Skate, skate!” at Army and drives himself up the ice. The terror, the quiet, the solemnity of before the puck drop is broken. The purpose is-- not forgotten, but subsumed by the pure, fierce joy of hockey.

Sidney scrambles up and down the ice messily, reluctantly conceding to a shift change when Talbot drags him to the bench by the back of his jersey. He barely remembers to grab a water bottle, staring intently out at the ice as if it’s Game 7 for the Cup rather than a sloppy, half-coordinated scrum.

Talbot comes back, and Sidney launches over the boards. He can feel the ice singing to him now, quiet but insistent, and he sinks deeper into that chill place inside. The puck comes to him like an obedient dog, and Thibault is in the wrong spot as Sidney launches it towards victory.

Sidney howls with joy as the puck hits twine, throat cracking against the cold as he hugs whoever is closest. He ends up face-to-face with Jordy, and they’re patting each other on the helmet as Sidney is surrounded with warmth and strength and shouting.

The haze of celebration turns into something more real that dances through the air. It’s not the ice-blue of pure winter magic but sparkling silver, echoing with their laughter and clean checks and goals long after they happen, building into a crescendo of noise.

 

_Hockey is real_

 

Two goals, three goals, four, and the magic spins higher and tighter in Sidney. It burns in his muscles as he pushes through the silver veil, chasing another hit, another play, another goal.

Five goals, and the mist _bites_ , sinking hooks deep in Sidney and pulling, drawing every ounce of anything he is willing to give. He feels his muscles slow, fierce energy drained into the air around him, the mist glowing brighter and brighter until it shines like the sun off the Cup. He’s wound up for a slapper, frozen in place, as Thibault is frozen shifting to block Sidney and Colby is frozen bracing for a hit and the puck is frozen waiting for a moment that will never come as the mist squeezes down on Sidney, impossible pressure as nothing pushes until it is--

s       o      m     e    t   h  i ng--

 

_I am real._

 

 

 

 

one anew (the tangible love)

First, Zhenya feels the ice. Chill, then numb, definitely sticking a little.

It’s the best thing he’s ever felt. He feels his throat close, his eyes well up, and no, _that’s_ the best thing he’s ever felt--

Then. The single crystalline hum in his ears is shattered by an explosion of skate-blades and indistinct shouts, joyous, panicked, wondering. “--- ----, --- ----!” someone yells. He feels like he knows the shape of the words, but now they dance beyond the edge of his mind as he wiggles his toes and cries. The sounds (skates, shouting, sticks, ice), the feelings (cold, breeze, breath, joy) the smells (humidity, ice, sweat), the sheer solid time of being present one second after another after another is nearly too much. He keeps his eyes squeezed closed, because one more sense could be the death of him.

That’s why he doesn’t know someone has approached until skate blades bite to a stop next to him, loud and grating and beautiful. “--,” the voice says as a knee thuds to the ground next to him, followed by the _patpat_ of gloves dropping. “--- --- ----? Geno? --- --- -------?”

“Что?” Zhenya grits out, and then gasps as something soft is draped over him. His eyes fly open in shock, and he sees a face, crowned by a helmet, pale skin and bright pink lips downturned in worry and glittering hazel eyes focused entirely on Zhenya.

He falls back, eyes closed: it _is_ too much. Barely, he hears the _shhk, shhk, shhk_ of more skates stopping. Barely, he feels arms wrap under and around him, twisting the blanket until he is warm and protected as he is carried off.

 

 

Sid touches Zhenya for the first time on the ice when Zhenya is born anew. He touches Zhenya again when Zheya awakes in the trainer’s med room, a comforting hand to the shoulder. Sid touches Zhenya steadily as Zhenya dresses, ankles wavering and knee jumping with the threat to unbalance. Sid touches Zhenya gently, hand wrapped around wrist, to guide them to the parking garage.

The full moon is well risen as they exit the garage. As greedy as Zhenya is for the sights of the city yet unseen, he cannot tear his gaze away from Sid. The streetlights flicker over Sid’s face, casting it into darkness and revealing so briefly with light. the light limns his cheekbones; the dark dances merrily in the depths of his eyes. Zhenya can barely remember the flickering sense-feel of Sid against his unbodied soul, and it’s nothing so rich in depth and beauty as the reality. Sid doesn’t seem to care that Zhenya stares, though his tongue flicks out to lick his lips nervously.

One heartbeat after another, time passes. Zhenya studies Sid’s face until it is nearly all he knows. The car stops. Sid gets out, goes around in front, opens the door and offers a hand to Zhenya. At the door stands someone that Zhenya recognizes with a jolt: Mario Lemieux.

Sid and Mario cluck at each other, sounding worried and protective. Zhenya sways a little where he stands. He can hear crickets through the cool spring night breeze that kisses his skin. The borrowed shoes are a little tight, pinching at his toes, and the sweatpants too baggy, only brushing against his skin as the breeze pushes it enough to make contact. The cloth is rough against the goosebumps that rise against the cold, napped from too many washes.

Sid brings Zhenya inside. The lights are off, so Zhenya can see only impressions of furniture, couches and end tables and lamps, as Sid directs them up the stairs, two flights, the soft creak of wood sounding under their feet. Mario peels off at the end of the first flight with a soft word.

Sid’s hand is warm against Zhenya’s. Their fingers interlace, and Sid grips tightly. Here is a room, and it’s not a guest room but something well lived-in, books and movie cases scattered about, a piece of clothing here and there flung over a chair or left sprawling on the ground.

Sid kicks off his shoes; Zhenya follows suit. Sid looks at the bed and rubs the back of his neck. Sound embarrassed, he says, “-- ----- --- ---- - ----, - ------ ------ --------...”

Zhenya interrupts him. He pulls closer to him their grasped hands, wrapping his free hand against the outside of Sid’s. Sid stops talking, stares. Nods. They move almost as one towards the bed, Zhenya angling at the left side as Sid goes for the right.

They curl up together. Sid nudges Zhenya’s knees apart until his own leg fits between. Zhenya wraps his arms around Sid’s back and pulls him close, until Sid’s breath puffs warm and wet on Zhenya’s collarbone.

“- ---- ---,” Sid mutters, nestling his head further into the soft join of Zhenya’s neck and shoulder.

Zhenya doesn’t need to know the words to understand what Sid’s saying. Every inch of skin pressed together between them sings the same song, an endless longing fulfilled.

“Я люблю тебя,” Zhenya says.


End file.
